


innocence died screaming

by niconii



Series: sing you to sleep [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bukkake, Captain America: The First Avenger, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug-Induced Paralysis, Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Spider Gag, cum, flashback-only stucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-12-17 06:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niconii/pseuds/niconii
Summary: Steve gets captured by Hydra when a mission goes wrong and they do unspeakable things to him.tags will be added with every update :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've tried my best to tag anything potentially triggering but if I missed anything out do let me know

It’s his fault, really.

Steve struggles through a haze of unconsciousness like he’s treading water in jello, only catching glimpses of what’s going on around him through swollen eyelids. Bright lights, the sharp scent of antiseptic, and the wheels of the gurney he’s lying on catching on every tile, sending vibrations through his skull. Hospital, then. Injured?

His fault. Distantly, his subconscious dredges up the memory of a mission. Hydra? Probably. There was something about staying quiet in the dark, hiding in position. God, his boots were soaked through and freezing and the fucking trees all looked the same at night, where were the rest of the commandos? He was supposed to stand somewhere, far away from the blast zone…

Ah, what an idiot. At least the others had got to him in time. In a flash of sudden hyperawareness, his body lights up in pain, the burns over half his body stinging with every minute movement, every panicked, shallow breath. He distantly registers a faint, high-pitched whine, animalistic and wild. Steve passes out before he can realize it’s him.

***

Steve returns to his body like he’s drowning and coming up for air, jerking violently and eyes flying open like he’s being shocked, gasping so hard his lungs might tear. Reality rushes at him all at once, the memory of searing pain making his eyes first snap down to the right half of his body, raw and pink, glistening under the harsh overhead lights. A crude bandage, tinged pink with blood and plasma, cradles his lowest ribs, where the pain seems to radiate from. It takes a few seconds for his addled mind to recognize that he’s completely nude, sitting upright on his knees, ankles shackled directly to the concrete floor right alongside his wrists. It takes him a few more to realize he’s definitely not in a hospital.

It takes all of his diminished focus to calm his breathing and to inspect his surroundings. The restraints pull his shoulders down, force his massive bulk to hunch over, and he can feel the ache of being held there unconscious biting at his spine. God, his neck hurts. He winces as he raises his head to look around at his surroundings.

They – it must be Hydra, fuck – have him in what could only be the most nondescript evil villain lair imaginable; an agonizingly bare windowless concrete room with nothing but a door to his left, harsh overhead lights that flicker erratically every few seconds, and him right in the middle of everything.

Steve grimaces. There’s nothing even remotely close to a possible escape route, even if he could break out of the restraints. He tests them as his mind races through the limited possibilities, tugging and pulling, his strained muscles spasming. They hold fast, crude edges digging into his skin and leaving red marks that will no doubt heal over the next hour. Nothing. Fuck. He steels himself and tries again, twisting his wrists back and forth, pulling so hard he can feel his arm threaten to pop out of its socket. That makes him pause, wrists a mangled mess of red now. Injuring himself this early on was definitely not the brightest thing to do. Why go to the trouble of doing Hydra’s job for them? He opens and clenches his hands. Sweat drips down his face as he bites his bottom lip thoughtfully. Maybe…

In one swift motion, he dislocates his left thumb with a sickening crack. Pain blazes its way up his arm and makes him wince, but even that isn’t enough for his hand to slip out from the cuff. Defeated, he sinks back down. His feet are numb.

He waits for what feels like hours, numbness spreading up his thighs as the unforgiving concrete bruises his knees and shins, the awkward position making every part of his body ache. Scenarios bounce around his mind in the extended silence, each more outlandish than the last. Half-heartedly, he pulls at the restraints every few minutes. His thumb barely hurts anymore, but the angle is unnatural, and Steve knows it’ll have to be reset. Curse the super-soldier serum. Another tired tug chafes his tender wrists. The feeling of the metal not snapping under his strength feels strange and alien now, makes him feel weak, like he was before the serum. Had Hydra actually managed to find a way to combat his super-strength? Or had they done something to him while he’d been knocked out, taken away the serum somehow? His stomach turns as fear rises in his throat like bile and he stops pulling. Blood drips from his wrists and mingles with the blood from his ankles on the concrete floor.

They leave him there for long enough that he begins to drift in and out of consciousness. The bandage at his side falls off after a while, leaving raw, freshly-healed skin exposed. As his head bobs forward for the third time, shocking him awake, he distantly remembers that he takes 10 hours to heal from 3rd degree burns. In optimal conditions.

_This is far from optimal_. He thinks glumly. Hunger gnaws at his insides and makes him want to throw up. The stomach cramps come and go, torturously irregular. His metabolism would tear his body apart from the inside if he didn’t eat, especially after healing from such a severe injury. How long more would they keep him here like this? Would they just let him waste away? God, did they even know?

He stews in his anxiety and hunger for another hour before something finally happens. The metal door slams open with no prior warning, startling a flood of relief and dread. It inadvertently makes him break out into a cold sweat. He hadn’t heard a single thing, even with his advanced hearing in a room so deathly silent he could hear his own fucking blood rushing in his ears. Not the handle turning, no footsteps, nothing. That meant thick, really thick walls, soundproofed. He tries not to think why.

The door shuts, trying so hard to be gentle that it could only be deliberate. Ah, so the bang had been a manipulation tactic; jump scare an already skittish hostage that’s had half a day to sit and speculate about the torture headed their way, send their terrified mind into overdrive. His shoulders tremble, a mix of hunger, cold, fatigue, and fear. Boots, heavy, sturdy, military, start making their way softly towards him. Only one man, apprehensive? No, a guise. Tentativeness disguising excitement, not wanting to give the game away so soon. After hours alone, Steve’s senses are heightened like never before. It makes his skin crawl, the way he can hear everything; the man’s muffled, carefully restrained breaths, the swish of his rough military clothes, the excited pounding of his heart underlying everything like a gentle alarm.

Steve keeps his gaze locked on the floor in front of him, on a peculiar metal ring jutting out from the ground that had taken him an hour to notice. A pair of glossy black boots fill his vision. He keeps his head down, feigning submission and docility. The more they underestimate him, the better. He ignores the ache in his stomach and his numb legs and tells himself his limbs only shake from anger.

A rough, large hand comes into view out of nowhere, grabbing his chin roughly and yanking his face up so he gets a good view of his capturer. Steve winces from the strain on his tired neck. The man’s fingers are cold and slightly damp. He’s tall, maybe just an inch or two shorter than Steve, wearing baggy clothes that disguise a leanly muscled frame. At first glance, he seems like any other regular Hydra goon, but there’s something in the way he holds himself, the deliberately casual slouch, his tight grip on Steve’s chin despite the relaxed shoulders, the other hand out of view behind his back, like he’s keeping his hand on something, just in case. A black cloth mask covers the bottom half of his face, showing bright, gleaming eyes. Frustration grips Steve tight. So Hydra wasn’t dumb enough to send someone in unmasked. He glances down at the man’s breast pocket. It’s not much, but it’s something. A faded nametag is sewn into the man’s standard-issue jacket, bearing the simple numbers: 638.

Steve’s mind races. Numbers could mean anything. There could be at least 637 other soldiers in the building, or it could be code, denoting rank or status. Or maybe they were just random fucking numbers, thrown together to send Steve spiraling down the wrong path.

#638 takes his time studying Steve as the gears of his mind grind away, turning his face this way and that for longer than he needs, almost waiting for something. Against his better judgment, Steve gathers the little spit he has in his dry mouth and launches it at the man’s face. He must be more tired than he feels, because it misses #638’s face entirely and lands somewhere over his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch, instead nodding a little, and finally letting go of Steve’s chin. Steve’s head drops sharply, and he curses himself for being such a hotheaded idiot.

There’s a sound of fabric shifting as #638 pulls something out of his pocket, and Steve’s sensitive nose fills with the acrid smell of freshly treated leather. The fuck? Steve looks up at #638 and comes face to face with a circle of shining titanium, four prongs extending symmetrically, with two leather straps on either end, clearly meant to be buckled together. Steve’s blank mask must have slipped into confusion, because #638 laughs at him like he’s a child and takes Steve’s chin into his left hand, thumbing his lower lip open like they were fucking sweethearts. Steve sees his chance and snags it with gusto, snapping his jaw shut around the thumb with all his strength.

Unfortunately, #638 has better reflexes than Steve had planned for, or maybe he was getting slower, weaker? His teeth hit the nail, slide off the top, and barely nick the fleshy pad on the bottom.

Without hesitation, #638 swings the buckle end of the device viciously at Steve’s cheek. The metal catches him directly on the right ear, the leather stinging his cheek like a whip. The force throws his face to the side and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes prickling with surprised tears. There’s an overwhelming ringing in his ear, too much like his tinnitus before the serum. It takes several minutes of wide-eyed ragged breathing, like he’s 13 and asthmatic in the middle of hay fever season all over again, before he returns to default position, head down, chest rising and falling shakily. The ringing eventually subsides as his eardrum knits itself back together.

#638’s hand returns, this time gently cradling Steve’s chin in a sick imitation of a lover, guiding his face upwards to meet his gaze. He holds up the pronged device with his other hand, dangling it in front of Steve’s nose like he’s tempting a dog with a treat.

“You know what this is?” His tone is sickly sweet under the slight German accent and makes Steve’s skin crawl. He can tell #638 is smiling without even having to look at his face.

His brain won’t work, even as he tries to fathom something, any witty, scathing line to spit back in response. Anger buzzes in his ears and drowns everything out. Everything points towards his torture finally beginning, the fruition of the past 12 or so hours of over-thinking, but in the face of it, his mind comes up blank. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes.

“Oh, you will, Captain.” The man murmurs like a lover, cutting through Steve’s confusion. One hand holds Steve’s face tight, even as he tries to wriggle out of his grasp, nose wrinkled in disgust. #638 caresses his cheek with his fingers, cooing softly without words, using his thumb to nudge open the pursed lips again. The wound from Steve’s teeth leaves a light trail of blood in its wake.

Steve’s first instinct is to chomp down once more, to rip the fucking thing from the man’s body and spit it back in his face, but the memory of leather and metal is still fresh on his tender cheek and swollen ear, so he clamps down on his screaming instincts and settles for simply holding his lips tightly closed and jaw clenched so tight he could break teeth.

#638 notices and tsks disapprovingly, briskly removing his fingers from Steve’s lips and smacking Steve’s cheek, not hard, more of a warning than anything. “Open your mouth, Captain. Do not make this hard for yourself.”

Steve snorts at that. He’s gone through life doing nothing but making things hard for himself, why stop now? He glares defiantly up at #638, who just rolls his eyes. He doesn’t seem genuinely angry, just mildly inconvenienced.

“I really hoped you would be more co-operative than this.” He doesn’t even bother to disguise the obvious lie. “We have barely begun and already you have suffered more than necessary.” He takes Steve’s nose between his fingers and pinches it shut, clearly trying to get Steve to breathe through his mouth.

Steve returns the new tactic with an incredulous gaze. After the success of the serum, they had run a week’s worth of tests on him, partly scientific, but mostly out of curiosity. They’d discovered he could run up to 60 miles per hour, survive temperatures that would’ve killed a normal man by hypothermia and heat stroke, and heal a broken bone in an hour. Oh, and also hold his breath for 30 minutes at a time.

The man frowns at Steve’s skeptical glare.

“Of course, forgive my forgetfulness. You no doubt can go without breathing for extended periods of time. We shall have to try another way.”

#638’s pinched fingers slide up the length of Steve’s nose slowly, almost sensually. He comes to a stop right at the bridge, and Steve realizes what he’s about to do a split second before-

He pinches, hard, and breaks Steve’s nose with a deft twist and a crack that fills the room.

Steve finally makes a sound, yells so loud that the echo seems to reverberate longer than normal, feral in his ears. He’s had broken noses before, back when he was a skinny little thing starting fights that could’ve killed him in alleyways he had no business being in, but this is different somehow. The intense pain keeps on tearing its way through his skull as #638 keeps his fingers clamped on the broken cartilage, keeps on moving it and takes advantage of Steve gasping in pain to slide the metal circle into his mouth, past the lips to dig in behind the teeth. He tries to shake the gag loose as soon as #638 lets go of his nose, but all he gets is a knee driving up into his sternum, calm and calculated, knocking all the breath out of him. He wheezes, entire body contracting, and instinctively tries to hunch over, which inadvertently sends his face careening straight into #638’s crotch. A light laugh fills the air as the buckle around his head is tightened roughly, catching Steve’s hair in its joints. He can feel the metal prongs digging into his cheeks.

“What an eager boy you are, _liebchen_. It seems you are very excited to finally begin.” #638 pats Steve’s head patronizingly and Steve imagines taking those infuriating hands and crushing them in his grasp. He’s never been one for violence, but the thought calms him enough for his breath to return.

#638 gestures vaguely above him at something just out of his field of vision.

Distantly, he hears the door open. Somewhere past the fight-and-flight instincts clouding his mind his brain helpfully deduces that there must be cameras watching them, must’ve been what he was signaling to. The thought gives him no comfort at all. The horde of boots stomp their way in, accompanied by excited, hushed whispers that remind Steve of the last time he’d scrounged up enough to watch a film, had sat there with everybody else, so eager for the reel to roll and the grand show to start. He’s not so sure he likes being the reason for all the excitement.

#638 yanks his face up by the chin again, probably to distract him from counting the men coming in, or focusing on anything going on outside, or even catching a glimpse of anything useful. His gaze is nauseatingly fond as he looks down at his handiwork. Steve’s nose is swollen and misshapen, already starting to bruise, blood dripping from his nostrils into his mouth and staining his teeth metallic red. It mingles with his drool, now dribbling out of his pried-open jaw onto his chest to leave pink rivulets snaking down his front.

“Unfortunately I have no interest in what comes next. But I have no doubt my men will take very good care of you, _Captain_.” He drawls Steve’s rank so lewdly Steve has to fight back the urge to physically shiver from disgust. _What the fuck’s coming next?_ He glances around wildly at all the men. They’re all unmasked, which is a worrying detail. Everything about his situation is a worrying detail, though, so he tries to listen past the barrage of boots still making their way in instead. His hearing in his right ear still comes in a little fuzzy, but he can hear someone down the corridor calmly reading off inaudible names.

His face is finally freed and #638 steps away, making his way to the door to Steve’s left. He must rank high, because the men in his way immediately part and stand at attention, murmuring little ‘hail Hydra’s as he passes. The last of the men finally enters, undoubtedly the one in charge since he’s wearing a stupid little hat with Hydra’s ugly octopus logo on the front. Steve watches the two men carefully as they shake hands and #638 leans forward to whisper something to the other. His voice is low and almost inaudible even in the echoing space and Steve has to strain his ears to eavesdrop.

“He is as we had thought, a stupid, dumb American. Very stubborn, but I suspect he will be easy to take apart with the proper creative methods. I have full faith in you, General.”

The General catches Steve’s intense, glowering stare and smirks. He’s shorter than #638 by nearly a head, a poor imitation of Hitler’s silly little mustache on his thin, cruel lips. He’s unmasked, like the rest of his men. Disposable, then.

He leans towards #638, keeping eye contact with Steve.

“Look.” He whispers.

A freezing wave of dread crashes into Steve. Something moves in the corner of his eye but it’s too late, much too late to do anything. Someone grabs his head roughly and turns it to the right so violently it would’ve snapped a normal man’s neck. _Shit_. He hadn’t been paying attention to where the rest of the men were, since his right ear was fucked, and someone had managed to sneak up while he was distracted by the conversation. His eyes take a second to focus on the man that’s gripping his hair so tight Steve can feel his hair being pulled out.

Steve’s eyes widen in shock. There’s a dick in his face. It’s already half-hard, circumcised, but that’s all the information he gets before it’s unceremoniously shoved past the gag in his mouth and down the back of his throat with a guttural moan somewhere above him.

Steve’s entire body clenches up as the dick muffles the rest of his surprised yell half-formed in his throat. _Oh, fuck_. Panic alarms begin to scream in his mind. _So this is what’s next_.

Across the room, #638 chuckles and finally leaves, closing the door with a resounding thud and an echoing “hail Hydra” in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: choking, vomiting (without any actual vomit)

After the serum, Steve discovers new things about his body every day. After he’d heard about Bucky’s unit being captured, he’d gone down to the training track buzzing with frustration and anger and tried to run it all out. He sprinted till the sun came up and barely felt tired. Months after, he’d accidentally sliced the tip of his finger off while training with some of Bucky’s throwing knives. It’d grown back within a week, fingernail and all. Now, with a cock ramming against the back of his throat so hard he can feel skin tear, he discovers he has no gag reflex.

The man seems intent on making the Great Captain America choke, regardless. Little grunts escape his lips as he uses Steve’s gaping mouth to work himself up to full mast. The sound is nauseating, slick and squelching and so vulgar he flushes red down his chest in embarrassment. Foamy drool spills down his front and makes a slimy mess.

He’s started pulling at the restraints again. The man’s gripping the sides of his head so tight he can barely move, so he just strains his arms, jerks them wildly and flails his body as much as he can. A yell rumbles deep in his chest and he roars so loudly that even the man fucking his face pauses, looks quizzically over at the General. He gestures for the man to continue with an exasperated sigh.

The dick in his mouth sits heavy on his tongue, It’s an almost familiar feeling and his treacherous brain conjures up sweet images of Bucky, fresh out of puberty, smiling gently at him as Steve’s bony hands guide Bucky’s swollen cock into his mouth for the first time, involuntarily gagging when he gets his lips past the head and it feels so weird, too much for him. Bucky’s warm hands wipe away tears from Steve’s eyes and slim cheekbones and he chuckles when he gets a playful swat for his troubles, Steve starting all over again with a stubborn pout.

A rough tug on the back of his head drags him out of his childhood apartment, all golden rays in the gentle midafternoon sun, and he snaps back to the present.

“Fuck.” The man hisses when Steve shoots him a menacing glare up through his lashes. “He’s got prettier eyes than my wife.” He tugs Steve’s head forward on his cock by his hair and holds him there, and Steve finally chokes, a full-body convulsion.

There’s a scattered round of mocking laughter from the men, and Steve should be paying attention, he really should, but the dick is so far down his throat he can’t breathe. Sure, he can go without air for 30 minutes, but any way you look at it, a cock rammed down his throat really doesn’t share the same parameters as sitting at the bottom of a pool, silently meditating.

His panicked body tries to swallow it. God, it’s pure instinct, and he can’t make himself stop, and a wave of disgust rises when the man groans throatily and somehow pushes his dick impossibly further down Steve’s throat. Wiry black hair tickles his nose and for one insane moment he chortles at the thought of sneezing the cock out of his fucking lungs.

He hates that the man smells like Bucky. His eyes flutter shut and he’s back in their shitty apartment again. They’re on the bed, Steve straddling Bucky’s knees, sucking him off slowly, relishing it. His hands ache from drawing the whole day, basic pin-ups of vapid girls with overflowing breasts and full hips selling some quack product, but he still pistons then slowly up and down Bucky’s thick shaft, mouth firmly clamped on the head. He’s gotten really good at this, sucking cock. Bucky mutters something along that line dazedly and Steve smiles cheekily around his length. He can take Bucky all the way to the back of his throat before he gags, now. He does so in one fluid motion as Bucky gasps and struggles to keep himself bucking up into Steve’s throat, clenching the bedding in his fists. Steve carefully works his jaw around the shaft, careful not to catch his teeth on it. Bucky’s acquired a certain musk since he started working at the docks hauling cargo, always tastes like a hard day’s work, but never unpleasant, not to Steve at least.

He hates it, but the man has a similar aroma with just an edge of body odor, and Steve wonders if he’ll ever be able to suck Bucky’s dick again without gagging.

“God, I’m gonna cum.” The man growls and finally pulls his dick free from Steve’s throat with a vulgar squelch, and Steve takes a pathetic, wet gulp of air. “Who would’ve thought Captain America knew how to suck cock this good?”

There’s barely a response from the room, and Steve manages to catch a glimpse of the others when the man removes his right hand from Steve’s peripheral vision to fist frantically at his cock, keeping half of it sitting on his tongue. There’s a line of at least ten men to his left, all armed and blocking the entrance. They all have their pants open, some fully jerking off and others merely palming their dicks, but they’re all solely fixated on Steve, eyes devouring him hungrily. _Fuck_. On one hand, he’s got a greater chance of making it out if they’re all distracted and thinking with their dicks instead of their heads, but if he doesn’t break free first…

His wrists burn. He’s rubbed the new skin raw and unable to heal over as he twists and wrenches his wounds against the unforgiving metal. It’s a miracle he hasn’t burst a vein, but there’s still a slow-growing puddle of blood starting to pool around his legs. Shit, he just has to find the weak point in the metal. They’re not even that thick, he should’ve broken out of them ages ago. _It doesn’t make sense_. There’s only one metal stronger than Steve on Earth, and all twelve pounds of it are probably locked behind Hydra doors right now along with his suit.

As if on cue, the General finally speaks. He has to raise his voice slightly over the almost comical desperate jacking off sounds the man is producing. “There’s no point trying to escape, Captain.” He has a lecherous smirk on his face that makes Steve want to crawl out of his skin. “You’ll rip your hands off before you get out of those cuffs.” There’s a proud, definitely overconfident tone to his words that makes Steve want to do that just out of spite, so he can wipe that sleazy grin off his face with bloody stumps.

At that thought, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Bucky rises in his subconscious and very colorfully starts berating him, so he merely winces and settles back down. No point in bleeding out to death before he even has a chance of escaping. They’re bound to slip up at some point, and as long as he stays alert, he’ll get his chance. He just has to get through this.

The man’s fucking his mouth shallowly now, using one hand to jack himself off while the other’s clenched in Steve’s hair. The swollen head rubs vigorously against his tongue and he can taste the pre-come coating it, like bitter saltwater in his mouth. As soon as that registers in his mind, his chest constricts violently and he gags. He’s never liked the taste of cum, not even Bucky’s. On the other hand, Bucky didn’t seem to mind much, always swallowing when Steve finished and taking advantage of his post-orgasm daze to rinse his mouth off in the bathroom so Steve wouldn’t have to taste himself when they kissed after.

He’d asked Bucky once why he didn’t just spit it out. Casually mentioned how unpleasant it tasted and told him _you don’t have to do that for me, Buck_. Bucky simply blushed and said it just felt like a damn waste.

The next time Steve sucked him off, he took Bucky’s cock all the way to the back of his mouth and held it there as Bucky spurted cum straight down his throat. And God, for the look on Bucky’s face after, Steve would’ve swallowed a dozen more loads.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, as the man’s pace becomes more erratic and he moans like something’s building up inside of him, Steve wonders about the nutritional value of sperm.

Some tiny grain of hope deep in him thinks that the man might just have mercy, shove his dick all the way down Steve’s throat when he comes so he won’t taste it, but of course he doesn’t. The man steadies his hips with a concentrated grunt of effort and deliberately spills onto Steve’s tongue, coating it with thick white streaks that make Steve heave as soon as his taste buds register the acrid, salty, slightly sweet tang. It’s leagues worse than Bucky’s, disgustingly sour, and Steve instinctively just knows the man’s not eating right.

His scalp aches when his hair’s finally released. It’s pathetic, but all he can manage is dropping his head down like dead weight, shivering, ribs aching from trying to throw nothing up. The cum slides down his tongue, slowly making its way out of his gaping mouth down his slick chin. It drips to the floor, obscenely white against the grey concrete.

“I don’t think Cap liked that very much.” The man snickers between heavy breaths, the specific kind of overconfident men get right after orgasm, and uses his boot to toe at Steve’s limp, shrunken dick. The room jeers when Steve jumps in shock like he’s been stung. Shit, he barely saw that coming, just a flash of black headed his direction before he could even flinch away. God, he needs to get out of his head, stop playing along with their games and focus on trying to get out. 

But the cum still burns on his tongue and Christ, it’s all he can think about.

Casually, the man grabs Steve’s hair and wipes his slimy cock with it, leaving it mussed and sticking up awkwardly with saliva and cum. _Fuck._ He muses. _That’s gonna be a bitch to wash out._

As soon as the man steps away, another immediately steps into view and gets straight to work, yanking his head back and thrusting his dick past the gag, just as rough and overbearing as the last one. For a second wild panic overtakes Steve’s senses at the sudden intrusion, prompting terrified spluttering and choked protests that seem to do nothing but egg the guy on. He’s notably longer than the last guy and every violent thrust pops the head of his dick back and forth down the back of Steve’s throat. It’s like he’s trying to test the limits of Steve’s gag reflex. To Steve’s dismay, it holds strong.

By some grace of God, the guy’s orgasm comes quick. He finishes with a sleazy, satisfied groan right at the back of Steve’s mouth. When he pulls out, Steve lurches forward and hacks it all up onto the ground, where the stringy globs join the others on the floor.

He hates himself for it, but he almost expects it when the next guy takes hold of his hair and crams his cock into his mouth. He’s a scrawny dude, and Steve can just about make out what looks like a queue stretching out behind him. His heart sinks. _Christ, that’s a lot of fucking cum._

He doesn’t really check out completely. It’s not like he can, anyway. Military training and his heightened senses work together in the worst way possible and every detail is hammered into the back of his mind. _For the mission report, later_. They all seem to be more concerned with finishing as fast as possible rather than satisfying their own pleasure. The General off to the side looks at his watch every few minutes and tsks disapprovingly when someone seems to take too long. Steve doesn’t really check out, but he also can’t make himself count how many men have finished in his mouth. The one saving grace he has is the pause between each guy, where he can retch their stinking loads onto the ground. His eyes water endlessly and his nose is leaking like he’s got the flu, and _ugh_, he thought he’d be done with all that after the serum.

The men blur together now as they keep coming relentlessly, each more frantic than the last, canting their hips roughly into his throat. Panic rises in him as the intervals between each one get shorter. He barely has time to spit the vile cum out before the next cock forces its way into his mouth. A particularly nasty one finishes after a few stuttered thrusts, and Steve takes a little too long hunched over, the thick offending substance stubbornly latched onto his tongue.

“For fuck’s sake.” A voice growls above him as he throws up nothing again, and his chest fucking hurts, aches like that time he got whooping cough. His chin is wrenched upwards, and another cock shoves its way down his throat, pushing cum further into his mouth. The man empties his load after a few beats, graciously pulling out a little so it sits in Steve’s mouth, coating his tongue with more salt and sour. He yanks himself out and Steve instinctively hunches over to let it fall out of his mouth, but someone immediately grips his head from behind, holding it still. His eyes water. The next man rushes into view and there’s barely a pause before he heaves a loud, satisfied sigh, emptying his balls into Steve’s mouth. The hot load joins the last two, almost too much in the back of his mouth. Retching with his head upright feels like his lungs are going to come up through his fucking throat and when he coughs and splutters past the cum for air, he’s pretty sure he inhales some.

With his head held up now, he can clearly see the men lining up to mindlessly thrust into his open mouth. It doesn’t even matter, Steve can barely count at this point, as the dicks keep coming with no end in sight. He can hear the rest of the men leering at him, at how cum overflows and drips from his lips at every intrusion, at the smutty squelching noises that accompany every wet thrust into his mouth. Muscle memory urges him to swallow, but the thought of that just makes him gag. Another man’s load joins the countless others in his mouth and he thinks, distantly, that maybe there _are_ 637 soldiers in the base, and they’re all going to cum in his mouth and drown him in sperm.

At some point, they give up on fucking into his mouth and simply shoot their loads into his open hole instead. It’s a reprieve he hates himself for missing, because now his mouth’s filling up with the filthy stuff, and he can feel it sloshing around in his cheeks, hot and slimy. It feels like hours before the crowd thins out and they finally stop. Steve’s mouth is so full he can feel his cheeks puff out from the weight of it. For the first time in hours, there’s no one jacking himself off into his mouth and Steve tenses. His last shred of self-preservation screams through the daze of disassociation he’s lulled himself into. If anything’s going to happen, it’s going to happen now. The whole room’s probably got their guard down post-orgasm, tired and loopy and not paying attention. If he’s going to escape, now’s his best chance.

But someone’s still clamped onto his head so tight his head’s going numb, and fuck, he hasn’t found a way out of his restraints yet, so what’s the fucking point?

The man holding his head leans over and spits down at him. It lands in Steve’s mouth with deadly accuracy and he grimaces.

The man grins, pleased with himself. One hand snakes forward to grasp Steve’s neck firmly. “Now swallow.”

Steve almost laughs. They must really be out of their fucking minds if they expect him to obey, to have been broken so easily. Christ, imagine him, Steve _fucking_ Rogers, obediently gulping down a full mouth of Hydra cum simply because he’d been ordered to. He chokes, something between a hysterical laugh and a growl of pure anger, and the pool of cum spurts out of his mouth onto his face. The man snatches his hands away with a disgusted noise. Steve slumps forward. _Shit_. The cum had gone up his nose. It’s burning and leaking and he’s crying and Christ, he feels pathetic but at least he’d held on to some kind of dignity. He tries to remind himself of that as great globs of white slide down his chest and onto his dick. The warm liquid burns on his shivering skin.

Somewhere behind him, he hears a man let out a frustrated whine and a whispered exclamation of ‘_fuck, that’s really fucking hot_,’ before being slapped and shushed by someone else.

The sound of boots fill the air as they march toward him, loud and angry. Something inside him rises with pride and he lifts his aching body up to glare with all the self-righteous, pious, Captain America energy he can muster. It’s the General, but that’s all Steve registers before he’s whacked across the face, _hard_, with the end of a baton. A loud crunch echoes in his head and sharp pain blossoms from his cheekbone, which is definitely broken now, fuck. As he sits there, dizzy with pain, all he can think about is how the movies lied. He doesn’t black out, but God, he wishes he would.

Then there’s a click and the cuffs finally, _finally_ spring open.


	3. Chapter 3

He crumples to the floor like a marionette cut from its strings. Blood floods back into his numb legs, burning, the worst pins-and-needles he’s ever felt in his life, so sensitive he can’t even try to move. For a second, he can’t comprehend what’s going on, his mind starved and clouded by fatigue. Then the realization hits and every strained muscle in his body is screaming at him to run, to fucking get away. He gets his arms under him sluggishly and rises, quivering. It’s the worst push-up he’s done since basic training.

Distantly, he knows this is another trick. There’s no quantifiable reason they’d let him loose if they thought he had even the slimmest chance of escaping. He knows they probably have something waiting for him if he even attempts to escape. He knows this. But his head is so fuzzy from the lack of blood and his common sense is being drowned out by the single instinct of getting himself to the door, because the door means freedom, and every second he stays he can feel his resolve leaking away.

It takes all his energy to get a knee under him, his muscles burning like his first day at camp. It feels like he’s hauling lead, and he nearly slips on the slick cum trying, but he manages. He’s almost about to try standing when his luck finally runs out.

There’s a flash of black as the General moves, swings his arm from behind him and rams something into the base of Steve’s neck quicker than Steve’s traitorous body can react. The prick of a needle enters his aching muscles and he knows he’s fucked before his body hits the ground again.

A different kind of numb sweeps over his body. It’s cold at first, flowing down his spine in a stinging chill like the ice bath his Ma had chucked him into once when the temperatures that summer nearly boiled him to death. But there’s also a sick kind of relief, as the buzzing pain of oversensitivity seeps away and leaves nothing but blanketed heat in its wake. The pain of his broken cheekbone and nose slip away almost immediately. He tries to move, again, but all he manages is the twitch of a finger. When he tries again a few seconds later, nothing moves.

He’s never really been drugged before. Never had enough money for surgery or the good kind of medicine that knocks you right out so you won’t have to suffer through feeling sick. Once, he’d taken a punch and hit his head on the edge of a broken table as he went down. He’d lost a few hours that day, barely coherent and on the edge of blacking out when Bucky managed to find him. He used to think that was the closest he’d gotten to being drugged; losing time whenever he closed and opened his eyes, no words coming out as he tried to yell for help, hearing the world going on around him like a track skipping on its reel.

As he lies there, too awake and entirely too aware of his surroundings, he feels like an idiot, because lying in the filth of a back alley with his face buried in trash feeling the hours bleed away was heaven compared to this.

Two men grab his limp upper arms and hoists him into a slack kneeling position, his body sliding across the floor easily. It feels like they’re touching him through winter jackets.

The General signals to the hidden overhead camera and the door opens. The rest of the men in the room immediately straighten up and file out like a classroom being dismissed after lessons. The conversations all meld together, but Steve just barely hears one of them talking about dinner. Fuck. He’d been in captivity for almost a day. There should have been a rescue attempt by now. The others must have seen him being taken, Bucky must be out of his mind knowing Hydra had him. Slowly, something terrible starts to dawn on him. It had been total chaos when he blacked out. There’s no guarantee that anyone made it out alive. There’s no guarantee of a rescue mission.

The men clear the room quickly, and when the last of them leaves, he doesn’t shut the door behind him. For one soaring second Steve thinks he might still have an impossible change of escaping, but it’s dashed when a man built like a fucking bear fills the doorway. He’s covered head to toe in a welding helmet and a heavy-duty pantsuit, with a full tool belt sitting heavy on his hips and a welding torch neatly holstered. Gloved hands carry a peculiar open ring of metal, unpolished and rough.

Despite his build, he practically tiptoes into the room. He enters slowly, head swinging this way and that like he’s staking out the location. Then he looks directly at Steve and immediately flinches, and Steve realizes, with a rush of satisfaction, that even in this state, he still presents enough of a threat for someone, at least, to be intimidated.

“Come on, John, he’s not going to bite.” The General sighs and beckons him closer.

Steve can’t see John’s face, but everything about him radiates nervousness as he closes the door and moves to stand beside the General, all timid movements and cautious even though Steve’s pliable body is shiny with drying cum and drool is dripping freely from his open jaw.

“You sure this is safe, boss?” His voice is muffled by the mask and it looks like it’s restricting his vision, but at least he has the right idea, hiding his face. “He and his team killed my buddy the other day, punched his skull right in.” An edge of resentment laces his words and Steve suddenly becomes very aware of John’s massive build.

The General waves his words away casually. “It’s perfectly safe. Here, look-“ Briskly, he unhooks the leather strap and the spider gag falls out of Steve’s mouth. For a lewd second, a string of drool mixed with cum hangs from the metal to his lips. Even without the gag in place, Steve’s jaw hangs slackly open.

John whistles behind his mask, a low, impressed sound that guts Steve with embarrassment.

“Should’ve done that from the start. I saw Lohmer having some trouble getting him to comply.”

The General tosses the gag to the side with mild distaste and wipes his soiled fingers on a handkerchief he pulls out of his breast pocket. “Ah, Lohmer can handle it. Besides, it’s more fun when he fights back.” 

John laughs awkwardly at that but he’s still nervous, keeps casting anxious glances at Steve and the door, the only escape route out of the room.

The General frowns at John’s hesitation while discarding his handkerchief carelessly on the floor. “Well go on, get started.”

John shakes his head like he’s clearing a fog. “Right, right.” All business, he steps forward, all trace of apprehension gone, and Steve’s heart falls.

He brings the peculiar ring up to Steve’s neck, setting it horizontal, pushing the two ends against Steve’s throat. The opening of the c-shaped ring is much too small and the metal too unyielding as John tries to squeeze Steve’s neck through. Jagged edges drag against his skin and he can hear the rough, thick sound of skin tearing, ripping open, but there’s no pain. For the first time in over a day, there’s absolutely no pain.

John eventually gets the ring around his neck and fishes out complicated looking tools from his belt. With considerable effort, he bends the metal closed around Steve’s neck. It’s nearly skin tight, and when he tries to object, he can feel his Adam’s apple shifting against the metal.

Something clicks behind him and suddenly a deafening roar fills his ears. Sudden warmth blooms on his skin like someone’s breathing down his neck, close and hot and uncomfortable.

In the corners of his vision he sees sparks flying, bouncing off the floor, and he realizes, as his world drops out from under him, that they’re welding a collar right onto him. Right onto his fucking skin.

He tries to struggle, but it’s pointless. His useless limbs won’t fucking _move_, and the men grip his slack arms in iron clutches.

The General hums and haws approvingly as John works. He sounds so damned pleased it’s infuriating.

“Let’s see him try to get out of that, eh?” He snickers and elbows John good naturedly. The beam of fire slips from the metal and scorches a streak along Steve’s skin, sparking a weak reflexive twitch. John simply laughs nervously along. There’s an awkward pause as he continues to weld, nothing but the low roar of the fire filling Steve’s ears, before the General speaks again, off-handedly, as if to fill the silence.

“This really is a much better use of that stupid little shield.”

Steve’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. No. He hadn’t misheard, had he? No. What? His _shield_? Fuck.

That must be why he couldn’t break out of those fucking cuffs. Oh, God, his _shield_. He knew Hydra’s tech was more advanced than anything the military had, but being able to manipulate vibranium? Christ, it would take a miracle for him to escape now.

He can’t help it. Hot tears blur his vision and roll down his cheeks silently.

“Couldn’t’ve done it without those Stark plans.” John sounds so fucking pleased with himself, and Steve feels the unfamiliar bite of venomous anger rise in his chest. If- no, _when_ he makes it out of here alive, he’s going to hunt these men down and gut them like fish.

When the collar’s done, so tight Steve can’t even swallow without having his air cut off, John pulls out a pair of battered cuffs long enough to cover Steve’s arm from wrist to elbow. If Steve squints, he can just about see hints of blue and red paint, layers of what was once the concentric circles on his shield. The right one even has the imprint of half of a star etched into its surface. It’s stupid, and the last thing he should be concerned with, but he hates that they’re unsymmetrical. John does the same as with the collar and this time, Steve can actually see the metal turn red-hot on his skin, numb blisters bubbling around his wrists. When the cuffs are finished, with matching seams of ugly, gnarled metal running down the entire length, he men holding him up manipulate his lifeless arms folded behind his back, one on top of the other, and John welds them fixed together.

There’s a loop on the front of his collar, crude and tacked on. He’d glimpsed it when John was putting the collar on him, but it still takes him by surprise when the General sticks his finger through it and pulls him over to that ring sticking out of the ground in front of where he’d been cuffed. He’d almost forgot about it, but there’s a sick, heavy feeling crawling in his gut and he’s pretty sure he’s about to become very well-acquainted with it.

The General lets go and Steve flops over with embarrassing ease. The shock of connecting with the cold, hard concrete doesn’t come, and Steve almost thinks it’s so much easier like this, to not feel the pain, to be allowed to retreat so far into himself while they defile and rape him, because it’s not really him, is it? This strange body, barely his, taking the pain because it can now, and all Steve has to do is close his eyes and pretend he’s back home again, scraping by and starving but not really, because Bucky’s there. Bucky’s always there, whether Steve’s dying in a back alley somewhere or on top of the world at fuckin’ Coney Island. He’s everywhere, but for the first time, Steve’s glad he’s not here.

They attach him directly to the floor with a loop of metal going through both the ring on his collar and the ring on the ground. When John welds the loop closed, fiery sparks land and bounce off Steve’s face, his jaw still open and drooling. It feels like rain on his skin.

His legs are put back into the same cuffs as before, wandering hands on his thighs and body pushing his knees under his hips so his ass is sticking up into the air. And then, it’s over. He’s alone again, shivering, red-hot with embarrassment yet simultaneously freezing cold as his body runs out of fuel. He’s so tired, there’s barely anything left in him to fight back even if he could.

John steps back to join the General, who has been hovering from a distance the entire time, relishing Steve’s helplessness and the minute twitches of agony on his face that the paralyzing drug lets through. The smile on his face is bright and true as he turns to John.

“Thank you. John. Great work, as always.”

They shake hands like they’d just finished a casual business deal and Steve wants to scream.

“You’re welcome, Sir. It’s a pleasure.” With a two-fisted salute and a shout of ‘hail hydra’, John leaves, and then it’s just Steve, the General, and the two men, the front of their pants visibly tight.

Nothing happens for a few minutes. It’s like they’re waiting for something, standing loose and casual now that Steve’s been utterly subdued. It’s too fucking quiet. Steve can hear the pathetic little gasps his body is making as the angle of his face on the ground constricts his airways and the unbearable rasp of metal against rough cement screeches loud in his ears. For the third time in two minutes, the General flicks his wrist to check his watch and frowns.

“Late. How irritating.” Curtly, he snaps his fingers to get the attention of the men, their intense gazes searing Steve’s exposed flesh pink with shame. “You two. Get started.”

The two goons grin at each other, meaty and dumb, and Steve can’t fucking breathe, because there’s only one thing left for them to do, and fuck, he’s been trying to stop himself from thinking about it, because thinking about it uproots memories of Bucky from gentler, better times, and Bucky just can’t be here, here in the dank basement of the enemy as Steve gets ripped apart, ravaged and so wrecked he’s not sure his pieces will ever become whole again.

His world crashes down around him as the two men rock-paper-scissors to see who goes first.


End file.
